


but you're my favourite sadness

by mimosaeyes



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Character Study, Episode Tag, Gen, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimosaeyes/pseuds/mimosaeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Iris-centric scenes spanning those nine months. Additional tags to be added along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The nurse who backs her out of the emergency operating theatre maneuvers her round the corner and grips her just below the elbows and very deliberately says something to her. Iris doesn’t know what it is, but it sounds soft and the woman repeats it until Iris drags her gaze away from the twin doors and onto her. Then she says it again. The tilt of her chin indicates it’s a question, so Iris nods even though she still can’t think of anything but Barry, flatlining on a gurney as frantic doctors call out numbers and codes, and oh god that zigzag of red right across his chest.

She’s being led away by the wrist and her ears still feel like they’ve been muffled with cotton wool. “Stop,” she says, or thinks she says, but in the next moment it doesn’t matter if the nurse has heard her anyway, because her knees hit the ground and the dull pain barely registers.

Her head clears a little at this newfound altitude. Although that may have more to do with the fact that she’s been physically worked into a recovery position she recognizes from first aid training. Head between her knees instead of lying down, because it’s a bustling hallway; paramedics are rushing in with other casualties of what she dimly realizes counts as a genuine technological disaster. Here, in Central City. It’s a horrifying revelation. And she’s curled up into herself staring at the linoleum floor while her best friend is getting defibrillated not twenty meters away.

Iris lifts her head and forces herself to meet the nurse’s gaze. She hopes she doesn’t look as unhinged as she feels. “I’m calm,” she enunciates, as lucidly as she can manage. “I can wait outside.”

It’s a reserve of strength she’s fallen back upon before, a combination of her own resolution, and years of civilian courses attended both before and after her father’s refusal to let her join the police force. Her chest twinges: Barry attended those classes with her, horsing around a little about the dummies they were told to practice on, but going stony-faced and more teary than she pretended to notice at the part on stab wounds.

Apparently she’s convincing enough, because the nurse helps her up and walks her back to the glass doors that read ‘Emergency’ in capital letters. With a tremendous wave of relief, she notices the blips on the EKG machine, telling her his heart is beating again. He’s so still and pale under the fluorescent light, though, and medical staff are still bustling around him, beginning to treat the burns on his hand and foot, producing medical equipment she’s never even seen before.

When her new acquaintance starts to pull away and re-enter the theatre, Iris reaches out reflexively, touching her shoulder and breathing the words, “Thank you.” She’s watching Barry’s chest rise and fall ever so subtly as she speaks, and it feels like thanking the universe. 

The other woman hesitates fractionally, glancing between her and Barry. “You’re his... family?” she asks for confirmation. At Iris’ nod, she says, “I don’t know if I can let you stay here. I’m not that senior, and—” She seems to gather her nerve then, and looks directly at Iris. “But I have a boyfriend, and I couldn’t bear to sit in the waiting area either.”

Iris blinks at that, the woman’s mistaken reading of the situation taking a moment to sink in. But the truth is too complicated to explain to a stranger, albeit a kindly one, so she smiles and repeats, “Thank you,” her voice stronger now. 

It is only six minutes later that the line on the EKG goes abruptly flat, and then the lights in the whole hallway go out. Nine times this happens, nine times the medical assistants reboot a spare generator for the room alone, before Joe finally strides up the hallway to her, coat drenched with rainwater and eyes too dark with grief. Nine times over, she stands alone and watches Barry die and come back, heart lurching each time along with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Ben Hammersley's "Stairwell Wall": but you're my favourite sadness / and I'm wondering if you'll find your way home.
> 
> I have a great many feelings about Iris West.


	2. Chapter 2

“And you?” is the first thing Henry Allen says once she’s finished speaking. “Are you holding up?”

“Yeah,” Iris tells him, and after a beat pulls a face, because it’s obvious even to her how automatic the response has become. Over the course of the day the lie has grown so reflexive that it ceased to exhaust her; now, the knowing look on Henry’s face tugs away that shield of platitude. A tension in her shoulders and the pit of her stomach seems to go with it, like a long exhalation after holding her breath too long.

Talking to Henry, just like talking to Barry, requires honesty, directness, the shedding of pretence. It’s there in his steady gaze; in the way he asked _Are you_ and not _How’ve you been holding up_ , understanding what it is to have days measured in absolutes instead of extents.

When she comes back to herself, she’s got her fingers splayed over her eyes, obscuring them from his view even though it’s plainly obvious that she’s crying. The spontaneity of her grief no longer surprises her, but even in her low moments she falls only to this half-anguish, protected by the stoic veneer that being raised by a single father with traditional sensibilities, develops. Not since the night of the explosion, of the emergency room and all its too much, has that shield been compromised.

She’s touching her fingertips to the tears as they come, careful not to smear her make-up — waterproof and far too old, really, to work well. Back in high school Barry bought her a small pack out of his own allowance after weeks of her self-consciousness during gym lessons down at the pool, before which she agonized over whether it was worse to be seen with acne ravaging her forehead, or concealer running down her cheeks. _You look amazing_ , his post-it note read. _This is just in case anyone else needs convincing._ And last night, unable to sleep, she threw off the covers, turned on the lights and hunted through her dresser for that ancient little kit, tucked into a dusty bottom corner.

Some part of her recognizes the absurdity of thinking about her mascara at a time like this. But it isn’t about make-up really, just like this morning’s abrupt decision to apply that waterproof mascara wasn’t in practical consideration for the crying she would do at Chyre’s funeral. Nowadays she has lost an essential quality of levity she wasn’t aware she had. Every minor detail takes on new connotations, brings to mind shadowy memories that echo around the space in her life that Barry so seamlessly occupied. _Baby, you know it’s what’s inside that counts_ , was all her dad said when she asked not-too-slyly to be excused from swimming class; it was for him to be his benevolently no-nonsense self, and for Barry to mediate, to so naturally bridge their viewpoints.

She switches the black telephone from her left to her right hand, then back again. The other part of her mind, the one that isn’t in deep reverie, belatedly registers that Henry is calling her name, softly but insistently.

“Sorry,” Iris begins to say, but even as she does Henry holds up a hand to stop her.

“Barry tells me about you,” he says, once she focuses her gaze to meet his. “So I know all about this thing you do, trying to keep everyone else happy when something bad happens.” Henry huffs a little as his voice lightens with fondness: “To the point where you don’t look after yourself. I can see now why he finds it frustrating.”

Strange, how disarmingly cheering it is to listen to him talk about Barry. For a moment Iris can’t pinpoint what it is about those simple words that makes her feel instantly more buoyant. Brow furrowing a little, she tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear, and shifts subtly so she’s cradling the telephone in the nook between her cheek and shoulder.

“Barry doesn’t say anything embarrassing about me, does he?” she asks, playing with the coiled black cord.

It’s probably just her imagination, but Henry seems to hesitate a moment before answering, too smoothly, “Nothing that might embarrass you.” His voice lilts on _embarrass_ and _you_ , as if determined not to emphasize the words.

Before she can pursue that train of thought, however, Henry grows solemn again, clearing his throat quite deliberately. He starts speaking, gentle and matter-of-factly. “Iris. You’ve just spent ten minutes telling me all about how Barry’s doing. Look at yourself, you’re still wearing black because you came straight from Chyre’s funeral service. You’re probably here in the window of time while your dad talks to Chyre’s kid at the cemetery, because you know he doesn’t approve of you coming to see me.”

Henry takes a breath, then, and Iris catches herself not so much nodding as slightly bobbing her head, the acknowledgement unnecessary but instinctive.

“I’m an old man, Iris,” he says then, and the apparent non sequitur throws her off, makes her arch one of her eyebrows in surprise. Unheeding, Henry merely continues, “And we old people have our favorite stories. One of mine, I partly witnessed and partly was recounted. Six weeks after Barry came to live with you, your dad got Chyre to watch you while he brought Barry to a big-name psychologist on the edge of town. You’d seen how distraught Barry looked after sessions with psychologists, when they told him about post-traumatic stress delusions and recommended he not be allowed to see me.”

His voice chokes a little at that, but he talks through it. “You only had a couple of hours before they got back, and you had to talk Chyre over to your side, but somehow you managed it. All so you could ask me how to help Barry.”

The tears are running freely for Iris at this point, but dimly through them she realizes why hearing his dad talk about Barry was so soothing. Henry spoke in present tense, earlier, whereas without thinking much of it, for days now they’ve been referring to Barry like a thing of the past, all _Oh, pizza, Barry would’ve loved this_ and _I remember how he burned you brownies in that oven_. Another memory: Barry hugging her in the early hours of the day he left for college, lips pressing into her hair the words of comfort that comprised his goodbye. _I’m not even leaving really. You aren’t losing me._

“That was fourteen years ago. Fourteen years ago, you looked up at me like I had all the answers to every trouble in the world, because that’s what you do, Iris, you get _involved._ Fourteen years on, you’re still doing it. I just don’t want you to get _overwhelmed._ ”

Henry leans forward, his expression a complex of gratitude, love, self-conflict. “Thank you,” he says finally, after debating his next words for a long moment. “For looking after him for me.”

Then the guards are coming forward to take him back to his cell, and Iris stays put there long after, trying to set the phone down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought this would be an interesting dynamic to take a gander at.
> 
> I haven't felt up to writing — physically to some extent, but mostly mentally. Hope you enjoyed this unexpected update though.


	3. Chapter 3

Someone’s placed a foldout chair beside the gurney. Iris is willing to bet on Cisco — the Latino with a sweet tooth, an easy grin, and depths of tact and empathy beneath a lightheartedness only sometimes strained. On her previous visit, and her first alone, Cisco was the one who paused just outside the doorway to unobtrusively suggest, “You know, he can probably hear you. Try talking to him.”

She hopes he didn’t notice the way her hands flitted indecisively that day, alternately fixing her hair and clutching the edge of the bed. In some ways, though, she intuits that he wouldn’t judge her for it.

Today, in tacit gratitude, she’s brought a cardboard carrier of drinks over from Jitters for each member of the S.T.A.R. Labs team. Freshly squeezed orange juice for Cisco, pulpy and with a shot of sugar water in it to take the edge off the sourness. Coffee, with milk and no sugar, for Dr. Wells; one time she caught him with grape soda from Big Belly Burger, but something about the periodic set of his jaw compels her to keep that secret.

Both beverages are the culmination of substantial trial and error on her part. The process is still ongoing, in fact, with Caitlin, on whom she’s decided today to try out a black tea infused with apricot. Iris sets down the drinks for them to collect later, then goes to sit on the foldout chair.

“You got another Science Showcase in the mail today,” she brightly informs Barry, although she says it to the floor as she digs the magazine out of her bag. “And my phone is fully charged, and Cisco told me their Wifi password — ‘back2dafuture’, would you believe it — so with any luck I can decrypt the geek-speak.”

Hastily, she leafs past a five-page feature on the 2013 North American Particle Accelerator Conference, pointedly averting her eyes from the quotes in bold font that summarize various scientists’ view on what they were bracingly calling the ‘Central City Setback’.

 _You don’t know_ , she thinks furiously at the words, at the portrait of the balding physicist who said them. _You don’t understand._

This time, instead of dithering by the mattress, her hand goes straight for Barry’s. The feel of his fingers between hers, callused where he holds his pen, seems to anchor her.

“My dad’s coming to see you tomorrow,” she tells him, propping up the copy of Science Showcase against his hip so she can keep holding his hand while she browses articles. “You’ll like that, he’ll give you a blow-by-blow account of Captain Singh’s antagonism with the ad hoc forensic assistant they brought in while you’re... while you’re away.”

A beat, in which Barry would normally have smiled and taken abrupt interest in the floor to hide his bashfulness. Or else gloated exaggeratedly at the rare reminder that his talents did not, after all, go unappreciated by his superiors at the precinct. Iris clears her throat to fill the silence, bridge the gap. “Detective Pretty Boy, that transfer from Keystone? Yeah, he volunteered to cover his shifts so he could come see you. Which is good, because Dad’d be too busy otherwise, and—”

She bites back the news about Chyre that threatens to spill out into the air and press down on them both. Because this morning she looked herself in the mirror, looked at the bruises of sleeplessness under her eyes, and swore to come here and make reality sound like an ideal place for Barry to wake up to. Because the other day her dad brought home a years-old framed photo of himself and Chyre wearing, for a laugh, white wigs and fake beards at the acceptance ceremony for their long service awards; they promised each other then to make it a tradition. Because her black dress is still hanging in the dryer from when she attended Chyre’s funeral; because the last time she tried to walk down the hall to the laundry room, she paused outside Barry’s old door for a minute that turned into an afternoon, and then into her dad’s hand at her elbow, guiding her gently away.

But then she thinks of Henry Allen, watching her through thick protective glass and the lens of familiarity, almost parental, that comes from seeing someone grow through childhood. _Look after yourself, too_ , he basically told her, _Barry would insist you do._

She brought the magazine in part so she would have something to say to Barry, so she wouldn’t have to scour through the memory of the past fortnight for something positive to talk about. Now a third option occurs to her.

“—And because it gave me a reason to ask him out for coffee,” Iris says, in lieu of reporting Chyre’s passing. The last few words seem to rush out of her; she feels the rightness of confiding in Barry even as she follows the impulse. “Barry... look, his name is Eddie, alright? I thought he was just some pretty face, but he isn’t. He’s thoughtful, he’s sweet, and he’s... so, so good to me. I can’t tell my dad. But I can talk to you, can’t I?”

 _I can always talk to you_ , she thinks.

So this, Eddie, is how she will stop neglecting herself. Iris thinks of the first night they spent back home, how quiet it was, how it wasn’t night at all but late afternoon, only they’d been at the hospital for one complete circadian cycle and whether it was nighttime or not, they both needed sleep. She thinks of how it was only quiet because her initial sobbing had petered out, for lack of energy, into a silent streaming of tears, tears that meant worry and shock more than grief. Later that evening was the first time she went to bed leaving her phone on with the volume turned up, so that any news of Barry would wake her for sure.

Then she thinks of Eddie, sitting at a table in Jitters across from her after hours; Eddie, knowing not to try and hold her hand, just stirring vast quantities of sugar into his Yorkshire blend so that she could surreptitiously compose her hitching breaths to the rhythm of his teaspoon clinking against the ceramic; Eddie, trading his tea for her coffee, unexpectedly murmuring some corny line that made her crack a watery smile, about her needing a break from _bitter things too hard to swallow_.

It’s always felt right, the way Barry could make her smile; but that doesn’t mean it’s right for his absence to make her cry. So when she asks, “Is it bad that I don’t feel guilty about being happy with Eddie, while you’re here in a coma?” she steadies herself with the knowledge that she means the question rhetorically. And she needs that as an anchor, because this is the first time she’s felt strong enough to refer to Barry’s condition without euphemisms like _sleeping_ or _away._

Still, she studies him for an answer, an acknowledgement of some kind. But of course his face is slack, his warm eyes closed. His eyebrows aren’t furrowed with concern for her quagmire; his hair is on the wrong side of mussed; his skin, usually littered with ink splotches and the occasional iodine stain, is pale, sterilized, empty.

Iris gives his hand a squeeze. Google told her he might not even be able to feel the gesture, so really all it does is epitomize the one-sidedness that, at least for now, has to characterize their exchanges. However, as if in resolute denial, she persists in starting one final conversation thread. “You were on the news, Barry,” she tells him. “They listed all the people who died, and then some who were injured. And then they called you a miracle, a survivor. They didn’t even get your name, but you gave people hope — you give people hope.”

With her free hand, she nudges the copy of Science Showcase so the glare from the lights above her doesn’t reflect off the glossy pages. “Come on,” she urges him, without expecting response. “Let’s read about organ transplant advancements.”

She reads to him for an hour, cover to cover, and the next day lets him hear her dissertation draft. After a while, it almost feels normal, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The initial draft of this chapter was much angstier. But I feel like we need to see more of Iris adjusting to this turn of events; and I think Eddie should be a part of that.


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh ho ho, this one’s a doozy. Take it. Please, just. Get it away from me.”

Iris blinks, and suddenly she’s staring at a half-empty jar of cronuts on the counter at Jitters instead of the post-lightning too-empty-too-quiet interior of Barry’s lab. “What?”

A flurry of movement attracts her attention; as she reaches out to take the order chit being waved in her face, she gets the sneaking suspicion that she’s still half in a reverie, thoughts sluggish and actions stunted. For across the counter from her, Tracy appears to be holding a pose befitting a maiden of medieval times, one hand thrown melodramatically over her eyes as if in a dead swoon.

Mystifying.

She looks down at the scrap of paper in her hand as Tracy drops the act and grinningly sneaks a piece of biscotti while waiting for Iris to fill the order. It’s obnoxiously long, to the extent that even Tracy’s hyperbole isn’t too far off the mark for once.

“Hipsters, eh?” Tracy is saying around a mouthful of her afternoon repast. “Always ordering ‘Artisanal Selections’ with at least a half-dozen special requests. At least they’re only active in the off-peak hours.” She gives an exaggerated shudder, presumably at the thought of some yet unobserved species of hipster appearing alongside the late-morning hungover grouches, or the early-morning zombies in search of caffeine.

Under normal circumstances, the pause in Tracy’s opinionated tirade would be Iris’ cue to join in, possibly with some comfortingly disparaging comment about hipsters’ tips, or lack thereof. This kind of deliberately judgmental banter gets them through the drowsy afternoon shift together. So even as Iris absently notices herself giving a noncommittal shrug, she braces for her co-worker’s concern.

Somehow she’s still caught off guard when it comes. “Hey, Earth to Iris.” Tracy waits pointedly till she meets her gaze and sets aside the partially prepared iced coffee. “Your mind’s about as far away right now as the country that organic cocoa powder is sourced from. Talk to me,” she urges. Her tone softens further as she ventures to ask, “Is it Barry? Has there been any... change?”

Despite herself, on hearing the tenderness in Tracy’s voice, Iris drops her gaze back down and fusses with her extra finely chopped hazelnuts. “No. No, it’s not Barry,” she tells them haltingly. “But also — maybe, kind of, yes. I think.”

She bites her lip and decides to go at the hazelnuts a couple more times. No sooner has she picked up the knife than Tracy sharply yet sympathetically stops her: “If you chop those any more, they’ll be hazel-dust and the hipsters will complain you got the order wrong.”

Then there’s an air of affectionate resignation about her as Tracy sighs, “You may be the better barista, but you’re a downright terrible liar, Iris West.”

“Right,” Iris mutters, and swiftly dumps the nuts over the whipped cream before she can second-guess them again. Tracy nods sagely at that, as if in approval, and is tactful enough to take her time serving the beverage, giving Iris ample opportunity to compose herself.

“The precinct got me to come in and pick up his stuff from the lab,” she blurts out once Tracy returns to the counter. “The temporary forensic assistant needs the space; they would’ve asked sooner, but I think my dad stalled them.”

Unconsciously, she starts picking at the hem of her dress, only making it worse really by twisting a loose thread around her index finger. “I mean. They already cleared up the— the broken glass, and chemicals, from the floor, of course, but. Just. His desk was pushed up against the far wall. The dustbin was empty of takeout boxes. And his— his _stupid_ Science Showcase magazine, with the _stupid_ particle accelerator article — got soaked through with acids or sulfates or something, and the pages are stuck together now and even if I can get them un-stuck they’ll always be crinkled.”

She takes a deep breath and releases it in a breathy bark of mirthless laughter, wondering at the ridiculousness of her statement. “All I could think about is that the pages are crinkled.”

To her credit, Tracy looks no more alarmed by Iris’ increasing volume and hysterics than if they were having a regular conversation; she does, however, lean closer over the counter as if to comfort by proximity. “This is why you came in late?” she murmurs quietly, her solemnity weighing down the lilt at the end and turning the question into a statement. “Oh, Iris. You shouldn’t even have come in today. I told you weeks ago, just text me and I’ll cover for you.”

Iris tries for a small smile. “You can’t be covering for me every time I have a breakdown because some crumpled paper reminds me he’s not here.”

 _But he’s not gone_ , she berates herself fiercely. Everyone else who lost someone to the explosion and its after-effects is mourning or has mourned: she has to keep a vigil, keep him locked down in her mind so he can’t slip away.

Somewhere in her peripheral vision, she sees the hipster pick at his chopped hazelnuts with displeasure. Tracy follows her gaze and rolls her eyes dismissively.

“Would it help if you went to see him?” Tracy suggests, casually ignoring the customer. “The hospital’s only a few minutes away by bus. You can make visiting hours.”

“Barry’s not at the hospital anymore,” Iris corrects reflexively, then bites her lip.

At her friend’s questioning look, she elaborates, “We didn’t want to tell anybody, because we were afraid they’d call us... negligent, or fools... He’s at S.T.A.R. Labs. Has been for weeks. They said they could help—”

One of Tracy’s eyebrows darts up before she can help it. Iris rushes to say, “—and they have, he’s not seizing anymore, and I know we have no reason to trust Harrison Wells after. After what happened, but. We’re not naïve. We’re desperate. God, Tracy... I can’t keep losing him.”

“Go to him,” Tracy says gently. “At S.T.A.R. Labs, or wherever. Go on.” She makes little shooing gestures with her hands and comes around the counter. “Give me your apron and scram.”

Iris flashes her a grateful smile and goes to grab her things, but a half hour later finds herself alighting at the bus-stop nearest to Barry’s apartment, without having consciously decided on that destination. If she thinks about it she’ll have to conclude that this is where Barry feels most present now, despite his physical body being at S.T.A.R. Labs. Here, in the organized mess of all his nerdy magazines, some lying open to his favourite articles; and his old chemistry set packed away in a box sitting atop his wardrobe, sentimentally visible but not easily accessible. Here, in the Star Wars bedsheets he insists on using, and a framed picture of them together on his bedside table. And the bean-bag chair she bought him as a moving-out gift, the only personalized item of furniture around.

She can’t think about it. She mustn’t. She already is.

She’s thinking about standing in the middle of a forensics lab she still thinks of as Barry’s even when the only tangible reminders of his habitation there have been cleared away. About that emptiness, and about the way it seems to disappear when she lets Eddie take her out and flirt with her outrageously. And _how is it possible that something missing can weigh so much?_

 _Life moves on, okay? Painfully._ She’s remembering Eddie taking a bold step into Barry’s lab, remembering her inexplicable burst of ire at the intrusion. _I’m trying to help_ — _help make it easier. Lighter. But you can’t catch up to it unless you stop dragging his absence around with you._

It’s been weeks and all the websites try to soften the blow but she knows the more time passes in his coma, the less likely it is he’ll wake up. The more she’ll need him to.

It’s twenty types of co-dependent and sixty types of weird, but she crawls under his covers, savoring the coolness under them, the rustle of her smooth bare skin against them. She doesn’t know when she falls asleep, just knows that it’s the closest she’s felt to him in so long, too long.

She doesn’t get to mourn, because months on from the accident, she’s still losing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess, I thought I was done with this fic. Then I saw the flashback scenes in S01E20, and I was inspired to dash this off at 3am.
> 
> It may surprise you to know that Tracy isn't an OC. (Neither is that nurse from Chapter 1 really, she's the same one who makes Iris leave the emergency operating theatre.) Tracy is the waitress who drops the tray in the pilot episode. Yes, I fleshed out her personality from literally that one shot. And if I continue, she's going to get more development yet.


End file.
